


Ma Cœur

by hailbabel



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Cunilingus, Dirty Talk, F/F, Fingering, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Harlots Week, Harlots Week 2020, Lesbian Sex, Multiple Pov, Praise Kink, Smut, Tupping Tuesday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26704144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailbabel/pseuds/hailbabel
Summary: Isabella takes a chance on a bold, flirty gesture that pays off in the most delicious  way. Nancy leans into her feelings.My entry for Tupping Tuesday, Harlots Week 2020.
Relationships: Nancy Birch/Isabella Fitzwilliam
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Harlots Week 2020





	Ma Cœur

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains a few lines of French in keeping with a fashion trend featured in the story. At the end will be a translations of the longer phrases, as well as the title. The little endearments (ma belle, ma fille, etc) mostly boil down to "my girl", "my beauty", etc and are easily Googleable. I used Google translate for all of the French here, and am trusting in the good will of various fanfic groups that double-checked my work, but please feel free to leave a comment or drop a line if you see anything incorrect!

Isabella sat at the breakfast table staring off out the window, teacup raised but forgotten. The window overlooked a small, well-loved private garden maintained at her home at St. James. It was smaller than the sprawling lawns at the estate, but she didn’t have the heart to move again. St. James had been her sanctuary, but she had grown to love it as a home, and living in London proper had many benefits. Of course, she could think of none of them just now. Just now, she was expecting a parcel. And the anticipation was making her giddy.

There was a knock at the door and her insides squirmed. Maryanne, one of her maids, entered.

Isabella stirred in her seat. She maintained her calm demeanor, even though she knew exactly what the maid would say.

“Parcel for you, ma’am.” Isabella tingled.

“Thank you, Maryanne,” Isabella said. She smiled politely and tried not to eye the box in her hand. It was an innocent looking thing, white and tied with a pink ribbon affixed to it with a wax seal. She noted that the seal was intact, which meant no one would have been able to peek inside. She trusted Maryanne, of course, who had been in her service for several years. But even trusted maids snooped sometimes.

Maryanne placed the little box upon the table with apparent disinterest and went about straightening up the room. Isabella took a sip of tea, pretending not to really care what was in it, while being excruciatingly aware of its presence.

The maid bustled about the room, finding this and that to dust or adjust, humming pleasantly to herself.

She seemed to take an inordinately long time to do so, considering she kept every inch of the place spotless. When she finally took her leave, closing the door softly behind her, Isabella picked up the parcel. It was quite small and square, only slightly larger than her palm. It was almost comical how something that size could make her feel so embarrassed.

Isabella pressed her lips together as her face grew warm.

She knew exactly what would be in it, of course. It was something special from a very discreet tailor she had visited the day before. These things were in fashion, so perhaps she didn’t need to be so covert about the whole situation, but that didn’t stop her feeling a bit silly.

Isabella broke the wax seal and undid the ribbon. She opened the box, looked inside, and blushed further. Yes, they were exactly to her specifications.

Now the only thing left to do was to put them on and carry out the rest of her plan.

\---

Isabella arrived on Russel St. on foot just as a man was leaving Nancy’s place. He was red in the face and walked with an odd, wide stride. He adjusted his breeches and winced as though in a fair bit of pain. As Isabella watched, he forced down his grimace and straightened his walk. By the time he made it to the main street, you’d never be able to tell that he’d just had his rear end whipped up one side and down the other by the most infamous dominatrix in London.

Nancy herself stood in the doorway and called a farewell in a congenial manner, as if she knew him rather well.

Isabela felt a pang of jealousy as she realized that he must be a regular. It was a hot, ugly feeling that she pushed away. She knew what Nancy did, and knew that her relationship to her culls was not the same as that of most harlots. She knew them all by name and desire, though she didn’t see very many now that she was deeply involved with Fanny and the running of Greek St. From what Nancy related to her in their late night chats, their custom helped to keep the rent paid, and her services provided them something vital, though Isabella had not yet been able to wrap her mind around it. It was this thought, and her trust of Nancy that she used to push away that uncomfortable feeling.

Instead, she focused on the woman herself and the outfit she wore. It wasn’t her usual long coat and breeches, but form fitting stays of red on black, with a billowy blouse of some sheer material. The top half of her face was covered by a mask made to look like feathers, evoking the image of a crow. Her boots were polished black leather that came up to mid calf and hugged the curves of her legs, and her breeches fit her so snugly that Isabella could trace the outline of her thighs.

A piece of her brain stopped working seeing Nancy like that. How was a woman supposed to think around her when she looked like _that_? While Isabella struggled off and on with the nature of Nancy’s work, seeing her like this lit her insides on fire. It got her all mixed up inside and, brielfy, she imagined being in the room while Nancy attended a cull. If she was confused before, that image didn’t help in the least.

Nancy looked up, noticing Isabella for the first time. She smiled. _Oh, that smile._

“Isabella! I wasn’t expecting you today.”

The part of her brain that knew she was supposed to respond flickered faintly. “I hope I’m not intruding,” she said after much internal struggle.

“Not at all,” Nancy said. She looked down at herself and Isabella’s eyes followed gladly. “Come in, girl, before someone thinks that you’re trying to solicit me.” Nancy grinned trying to inject some humor into the conversation.

She led Isabella into the sitting room and motioned her into a comfortable chair by the hearth. The temperature was dropping with the sun, and Nancy already had a fire going. Her home was generally spare with little in the way of decoration. Two large armchairs sat opposite each other near the hearth, one accompanied by a spindly little end table, and a large butcher block table served as a dining table. None of it matched, but all of it was sturdy and well-loved.

“Have a seat, I suppose. I’ll put on some tea and, ah, get changed,” said Nancy.

“Oh,” Isabella started sheepishly. “Maybe you could… keep that on? That is, don’t change on my account.”

Nancy looked at her and gave a slow grin. She brushed her fingers through her hair and it fell with a deliberate gracelessness around her face.

_Mercy._

“This work for you?” Nancy gestured to her outfit. “You know, I charge for this.”

“Then I am especially privileged to see it for free.”

Nancy huffed a laugh. “I ought to charge you extra,” she said over her shoulder as she turned to leave the room.

Isabella watched her go with interest. Beyond simply admiring her form (which she did as often as she could), she wondered about what Nancy did for a living. Isabella was aware of the mechanics, of course. She knew that Nancy’s specific brand of harlotry utilized physical force and verbal violence to bring her patrons pleasure. What Isabella didn’t understand was why it worked. It intrigued her, not knowing. And wondering, perhaps, if she could acquire a taste for it.

Nancy returned in her usual ensamble looking much more at ease, and with her smirk still on.

“Is that what brought ya? Bit of mischief?” She propped one booted foot on the chair Isabella occupied, leaning in and supporting herself with one hand on her knee. Her hard blue eyes shone with a mischievous light that made her want to look away, but she didn’t submit to the feeling. Rather, she leaned into it.

“Mischief? Why, I simply missed you. I even brought you a gift. What else would I be here for?”

Nancy took in her slow expression and too-innocent tone and saw it for what it was: bait.

And she bit.

“Missed me, eh? And what about this gift you say you brought?” Nancy made a show of looking her over. She did it slowly, deliberately, her eyes lingering over Isabella’s hands, her waist, her chest. “You got something up your skirts for me?”

Isabella leaned in with a tilt of her head and knowing smile.

“Don’t I always?”

She took one of Nancy’s hands. Her fingers seemed so much shorter than her own, her palms so much rougher. She thought of what those hands could do. What they had already done with her. To her. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Without looking away, she guided her hand down to the hem of her dress.

Nancy’s expression turned to one of intrigue, and something else. Something hungry. The silk rasped faintly under her hand as she slid it downward, moving to kneel before Isabella. She hesitated a moment as her fingertips brushed Isabella’s ankle, before wandering up around to the back of her calf. She traced the seam of her stockings upwards, raising the hem of Isabella’s dress as she did so.

“And what will I find here?” Her voice was low and turned up at the end with her question.

Isabella reached for words, but her mind was failing her again. She drew a stubborn blank that only got worse as the warmth of Nancy’s hand trailed further up her stockinged leg.

So she didn’t speak. Instead, she smiled. And pushed gently on Nancy’s shoulder, urging her downward.

“A pretty box, perhaps?” Nancy continued, acquiescing to Isabella’s request. “A sweet, delicious peach, dripping with nectar?”

Nancy leaned down to brush her lips over Isabella’s calf and pushed her skirts up again before she finally noticed it, the fine embroidery decorating her silk garter. The curling script that spelled the message:

_"Mange ma chatte, ma cœur."_

\---

Nancy looked up at Isabella, who was biting her lip with anticipation. She couldn't help but smile. This was a bold gesture from her, something Nancy might expect one of her and Fanny's girls to pull on a cull they were seeing regularly.

Nancy had known several harlots to have such embroidered garters. They didn’t usually have such tender endearments on theirs. She had even been hired by a few ladies herself that wore them. The cheeky things were in fashion among the rich and the ragged alike. Only, the harlots usually embroidered their own, while she was sure that Isabella would have ordered these custom. The thought of Isabella approaching a tailor and describing what she wanted amused Nancy. The lady probably blushed scarlet when she did it.

Nancy rubbed her thumb over ther embroidered letters and grinned.

“ _Eat my_ … hmm.” She pretended to ponder the next word. “Remind me, what is that next word? My French isn’t so good.” She punctuated her question with a little nip behind Isabella’s knee.

This earned her a sharp gasp from above.

She slid her hands up, pushing the dress up to her hips and baring her thighs. The pale, porcelain flesh was soft and warm beneath her hands and it took everything in Nancy not to push them apart to taste Isabella’s cunny. She smelled of the musky-sweet scent of desire, and Nancy wet her own lips in anticipation.

Instead, she bit her inner thigh, sucking until a blotchy red mark formed in the shape of her mouth. She soothed it with a kiss, satisfied that it would turn into a lovely red-and-purple bruise by morning.

Isabella shuddered beneath her mouth and rocked her hips forward in an enticing little wriggle. Almost like prey, if a hare ached for a wolf's jaws.

“Isabella,” Nancy urged, soft but intense. 

Nancy’s fingers wandered toward the crux of her thighs, grazing past her cunt without touching it. It was torture. She wanted to bury her face there, devour her piece by tender piece. But she waited. She gave Isabella a little pinch behind her other thigh at that soft little place just beneath the swell of her arse. “Tell me, girl. What would you like to put in my mouth?”

Isabella yelped at the sharp little pinch and then sighed as Nancy rubbed it with the pad of her thumb. She squeezed her eyes shut. Nancy liked watching her struggle against the parts of her that told her she should be chaste and demur. It was almost as entertaining as simply taking her into her mouth and making her whine.

Isabella’s eyes opened slowly and the timid creature was gone. She locked her eyes onto Nancy, big and dark and full of want.

“Eat my cunt, Nancy Birch,” she said, her voice low and demanding.

A thrill prickled down Nancy’s back and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She looped her arms around Isabella’s waist, scooping her up, and Isabella gripped her with her long legs. Nancy carried her into the next room and deposited her on the bed. Shucking her coat, she crawled onto the mattress and finally gave in to the growling beast in the pit of her chest. The thing that urged her to make this woman writhe and beg.

Nancy pushed Isabella’s legs apart and sank down upon the mattress to better devour her prey. She parted Isabella’s lips with one hand and gave her cunt a gratifying lick. She tasted of salt and sex, better than any glass of gin, or the burning smoke of any pipe. Nothing gave her pleasure the way this did. Nothing made her feel more wild and alive than what her hands and her mouth could do to Isabella.

“ _Jolie petite chatte,”_ Nancy said between Isabella’s legs. “ _Je vais te faire mienne.” *_

She flicked her tongue up over Isabella’s clit and the resulting whimper made her tingle.

Nancy dominated men and women for a living, but the power she wielded over them was nothing compared to this, to turning Isabella into a keening creature with her tongue. Whipping culls was her job. But this. This was her joy.

She was already wet and throbbing with anticipation, so Nancy skipped the slow torture. She flicked her tongue relentlessly against Isabella’s clit, listening for the panting and moaning that told her she was hitting the right spot.

The sound of her was a special kind of drug.

Isabella slid one hand into Nancy’s hair and squeezed, and the pleasurable ache made Nancy growl.

She worked her tongue in and out in a steady rhythm as Isabella rolled her hips in time, the one hand in Nancy’s hair tugging with each little thrust. Nancy couldn’t say exactly why the hurting was so lovely, only that she was crazy for the way it felt. Something about the pain and the sound of Isabella’s little moans and the smell of her, spread open wide, at the mercy of Nancy’s mouth. It was glory, perfection. It was a gift.

Nancy sucked Isabella’s clit into her mouth to torture it with her tongue, making her lover cry out.

“ _Baise moi, ma belle!_ ”

Nancy grabbed Isabella’s hips with both hands, pulling her up against her mouth hungrily. If she wasn’t so deep between Isabella’s thighs she might have been amused by the request to be fucked in the same breath as such a sweet pet name.

“Yes,” Isabella hissed into the dark, grinding her hips down hard. “Yes, Nancy. Beautiful, wonderful, lovely thing. I love when you do this to me. I love when you fuck me with your mouth.” Her words were hot, whispered in that dark, lusty tone she took when they were together, and something deep in Nancy’s chest resonated with the sound. She hummed in response and her lover tensed beneath her.

Isabella cursed again into the air and went on. “ _Je suis à toi. Totalement. Je t’appartiens._ Just don’t stop. _S’il te plaît. Ne t’arrête pas.” **_

The… _intimacy_ of her tone made Nancy hot, and the way Isabella was responding to her touch. This was what truly got her off. The power of knowing what her hands and her mouth could do. And she didn’t even need a rod to do it.

And then, just to show that she was still in control, Nancy stopped.

She pulled away and licked her lips, wet with Isabella’s arousal. And watched as her lover, her grace, her Isabella stilled and processed the loss of contact. She was a rumpled mess in the bed, her legs splayed, lacy skirts pushed up around her hips. Her chest rose and fell hard and she gave a pleading little whine.

“ _Nancy._ ” Her voice was so soft and low, only just above a whisper. She reached down to tug at Nancy’s hair again, but when her hands came up empty she ran them up her torso, fingertips digging into the silk of her dress. _"Mon beau_ , please.”

Her whispered pleas were an exquisite kind of torture. Nancy replaced her tongue with her fingers, the better to watch her lover squirm under her touch. Isabella continued to whisper urgently, drifting back and forth from English to French, and then into a wordless whimpering as she wound ever tighter around Nancy’s probing fingers.

“You’re so pretty when you beg, Bell. Your hot little moans and the way you whimper for me.” Nancy added another finger, pressing against the tightness of her hole, and Isabella let out a long, low note of pleasure. “ _Bonne fille_ ,” she muttered. “ _Ma belle_ , my pretty fuckbird. I can taste how much you love this, I can feel you tighten around me.”

Isabella covered her face with her hands and struggled against the urge to clamp her thighs closed, a sure sign that she was close. Nancy felt smug with the satisfaction of it.

“That’s it, make your little cunt tight for me.” Nancy crawled up her body so that Isabella’s legs were draped over her hips, and Nancy could speak directly into her ear.

“I can feel how much you want to do it,” she whispered. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? You’re going to come like a good girl,” she urged as Isabella clung to her.

Isabella’s mouth opened, the plush “o” of her lips silent for a moment as she reached for words.

“What is it, dove? Pretty whore. What do you want?”

Isabella gulped, turning to angle her lips against Nancy’s ear to whisper.

“Say my name,” she pleaded.

Nancy ignored her. She tucked her face against Isabella’s neck and began to kiss and bite there. Her lover wriggled against her, but didn’t spend just yet.

“Say it,” she said, her voice tight, like a whine.

Nancy tugged Isabella’s earlobe between her teeth, causing her to shiver. In retaliation, Isabella gripped her hair with both hands. The pain was bright and hot and lovely.

“Say. It. _Pease._ ”

She was overstimulated and ready to be undone, so Nancy relanted.

“Isabella.” She whispered it like some magic spell, and Isabella’s body arched up, grinding hard against Nancy’s fingers.

“ _Isabella,”_ she said again, hot and low against her ear.

“Come for me, sweet Isabella.”

Isabella’s legs wrapped tight around her, and her fingers wound painfully in the hair at the back of her neck. Her whole body seemed to clench as her clit throbbed against Nancy’s fingers and she came in one long, crashing wave. The sound that choked out of her was broken and sweet, almost a sob before she sagged back into the mattress with a sigh.

Nancy kissed the crook of her neck.

“Good girl,” she said. _“Ma fille.”_

Isabella regained enough of herself to smile even as she panted, one hand pressed to her chest.

“Your French seems perfectly fine to me,” she said between breaths.

Nancy gathered the woman up in her arms, letting her lay her head against her chest.

“I was at Quigley’s, you know. I learned just enough to fool any cockstand that came my way.”

Isabella made a noise against her chest.

“And now you speak French to my cunt?”

“I’m full of surprises, eh?”

\---

They chatted for a while before Isabella drifted into a light sleep. She was dozing so peacefully that Nancy didn’t have the heart to move her, even when her arm fell asleep. She stroked her hair with her free hand and dwelled on the light feeling welling up in her chest. She hesitated to name it, but she could no longer ignore it.

It was the same feeling she got when they sat together in the morning to have breakfast, or when Isabella wrinkled her nose at something she found endearing. Or the little sounds she made when she tasted a strawberry that was especially sweet. Or when their hands brushed accidentally, and Isabella would crook one of her fingers around Nancy’s. Or…

Isabella stirred and muttered sleepily and that feeling, that frighteningly _good_ feeling, whirled up in her chest.

“Isabella,” she said, stirring her gently.

She hmm’d softly in response.

It was on the tip of her tongue, that feeling, waiting to be spoken into life.

Isabella reached up without looking and brushed her fingers over Nancy’s jaw. It was a familiar gesture, one she’d repeated a hundred times over the course of their very strange courtship. It comforted Nancy even as she waffled back and forth over whether or not to say the words that were lingering there, filling her chest and giving her such an ache.

Nancy let out a breath. “I think I love you,” she said in a rush.

She listened for a moment, unsure if Isabella had even heard but terrified that she might have. In the dark, the only sound she could hear was her soft, even breathing.

She was asleep again.

Nancy sagged back into the mattress again, the tension running out of her. In its absence she felt a giddiness that made her tremble. She reached up and covered Isabella’s hand with her own.

 _My Bell_ , she thought. _Ma cœur. ***_

  
  
  


Translations:

* ”Pretty little cunt, I’m going to make you mine.”

** ”I'm yours. Every piece. I belong to you. Just don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.

*** ”My heart.”


End file.
